What I Did in the War
by midnight-blue
Summary: There are not always happy endings. CM


**title:** What I Did in the War  
**author: **Kristin  
**rating: **pg  
**disclaimer:** The characters are absolutely not mine  
**summary: **There are not always happy endings  
**notes: **This is definitely AU, in the vein of speculation, though, as I observe what _could have_ happened to Margaret, and Charles, after the Korean War. I'm pretty sure that if Charles and Margaret didn't get married (like I enjoy believing they did), Charles would have found a wife eventually, and certainly wouldn't be a bachelor by 1965. But that's where the AU comes in. I can see it a bit more in Margaret. But suppose you just had two people who were in love, but didn't believe they were, and danced around each other for a long, long time? Therein lies my story. There's really no "plot" or purpose to it, it's basically a series of snapshots. And I will warn you, it doesn't have a happy ending, but I think you can tell that by the prologue. I hope that doesn't turn you off, but if it does, turn back. The poem is "As I Walked Out One Evening" by W.H. Auden. The lyrics are from Bob Dylan (the first three), Loreena McKennitt, Simon & Garfunkel, and Bob Dylan, respectively Despite that, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

The left corner of the photograph was curling, and two tiny yellow spots marred the white border, but it wasn't yet old. It was still in that in-between stage of remembering bygone days and wondering about futures that were void of the people who would forever exist, only, between the yellow-stained borders of memories manifest in smooth, carbon paper. In this case, it was _one_ person who would remain young while everyone else got old. While _he_ got old, specifically, watching her live in the irrationality that afforded him latitude enough to pretend she was still alive beyond this picture. He wasn't sure about a future she was absent from; he'd never considered it. 

He generally took care of photographs, mostly due to the fact that all the photographs in his possession were formal ones in need of frames and a proud display on the wall. This photograph, though, was tiny and candid and meant to be tucked into wallets and pockets, or even books; anywhere it could be readily available, able to be pulled out at a moment's notice, for a quick glance.

That was what she'd intended, he assumed, and he'd never treasured a picture so dearly as he did this one. He only regretted that he possessed none where they were both together. He knew she had one like that, but as they were separated...permanently, now, it would be impossible to ever see it again.

It would only be an apparition.

Like her.

He'd only received the news of her death a week ago. For some reason, he still hadn't fully absorbed it. He was expecting a phone call...hell, even from his old bunkmates, detailing the elaborate practical joke they had played. And any minute, she would walk through the door and smirk out of the side of her mouth, teasing him for his gullibility. He still felt that irrationality, so it wasn't quite real yet. He hadn't spoken to any of his old colleagues from the 4077th, but then, he hadn't spoken to them in _months_.

And so death--he was reminded--always came when it would induce the most pain.

* * *

"_Where have you been, my blue-eyed son? And where have you been, my darling young one?_" 

**I.**

Aside from perfunctory Christmas greetings and the occasional hollowed wish for a happy birthday, once a year, he'd lost touch with everyone. Everyone, that is, except Margaret. Their first goodbye wasn't even an ending, really, because they had rejoined at the 8063rd. Reminiscences laced regrets, swallowed with the frustrations and turmoils due their stay, all let out on the exhale of a fondness. Of a kind of hope. They had even shared a plane home, sitting next to one another, speaking scantly, both idle in mind with their respective literature.

And because they'd gone that far already, their final departure from one another wasn't really _final _at all, despite Margaret's decision to work at Walter Reed. Because they'd vowed to keep in touch, _really_ keep in touch. And they would, because, whether they would ever know it or not, they were immutably intertwined; when they laughed and joked and danced and conversed, these were all things _beyond_ the stifling limit of soul connections. These were the bonds of perpetuity.

And perpetuity, after all, _never_ beget finality.

So they were forever unburdened with having to say _goodbye_. They met frequently; two or three times a year, sometimes more. Sometimes less. In _those _years, the letters between them came with greater frequency, to compensate for the physical loss.

He would've balked at the idea (though it wouldn't have surprised him), but Margaret kept up on Charles through another circuit, via her "Uncle Bob" who would keep Margaret apprised of both Charles' job performance, and that of the nursing staff working under Charles.

* * *

In 1956, they both traveled to Philadelphia for a two-day conference. Charles was giving a lecture and Margaret was observing it. Most of what he presented were techniques introduced, learned, and honed within the midst of Korea. He maintained an enviable professionalism as he spoke of the patients they'd operated on, but she detected (the only one who possibly could) a tinge of sadness in his voice as he recalled the tragedy of war. A lot of it, she knew, was still manifesting itself in the images of those dead Chinese musicians, silenced from their benign, joyful melodies forever. 

As he stepped from the stage to a room full of applause, he spotted her easily in the front row, where she'd indicated she would be. He took a seat at her table as the next speaker took the stage to lecture. The two of them hadn't had a chance to greet each other prior to the lecture, and they hadn't seen each other in person since the end of 1954, so they were both eager to embrace, but maintained a professional distance until the last speaker wrapped up. As guests departed--their minds preoccupied with their respective friends and colleagues--Charles stood first, grasping Margaret's hand to help her stand, kissing it as he'd done at the fall of the 4077th, when their first ending was just a beginning.

And as she'd been then, Margaret was enchanted by him and his ever gallant demeanor.

"Charles, every time you do that, you make me feel like a princess."

"Shall I cease?" he teased, eyes dancing as he dropped her hand to his side.

"Not yet."

They spent the ensuing afternoon walking around Philadelphia, though Charles felt stifled a bit by the city itself. It lacked a charm that Boston so obviously had.

"It's not Boston, is it? But you've gotta admit it's got something to it."

He raised his eyebrows, saying, "It's a bit like trying to find a redeeming quality to a pile of refuse."

She shrugged back. "Well, you know what they say...one man's trash..."

Later that night, they attended a special banquet which was given in thanks to those who had lectured at the conference earlier in the day. Margaret went as Charles' date, though neither used that particular term. As they entered, Margaret on Charles' arm, a photographer implored them to pose for a photograph. Prodded insistently by Margaret, Charles reluctantly agreed. Though by the smile he produced for posterity (or more), it would be hard to tell he'd had to force it.

"A photograph for the family album," the photographer stated boldly.

Charles laughed with surprise, quickly correcting, "She's merely a colleague."

As they walked to their table, Margaret's grip on his arm tightened and he knew instantly he'd worded it in an offensive way.

"Merely a _colleague_, Charles? You can't even fathom the idea of me being your date tonight?"

"Margaret, it's simply not an epithet to be brandying around with nonchalance. I should have--"

"I don't even warrant being referred to as your friend?"

He leaned in closer as they neared their table, his voice dipping to a whisper so other guests wouldn't hear.

"Margaret, you are my dearest friend. I run into the trouble of allowing my mind to forge far ahead of my mouth, leaving a gap which may, in some instances, necessitate a reevaluation of my manners."

* * *

_"Please see for me if her hair's hanging long, for that's the way I remember her best..."_

**II.**

She had taken the photograph with her, that night, and he'd allowed it, being courteous. But only on the condition that she at least give him a photograph of herself sometime in the future, to make up for the one he was now lacking due to his politeness. She agreed, and so, in the summer of 1957, she went to California to visit BJ and his family. They all went to the beach and BJ took a photograph of Margaret when she had dried off, a loose t-shirt blowing with the carefree air of of summer's graceful breath. Her hair was still wet at the tips and she'd leant against the trunk of a palm tree, crossing her arms as she watched the families around her. It was then that BJ snapped the picture, as she'd smiled at a father who placed his daughter upon his shoulders.

It was that picture which Margaret decided to send to Charles, when she wrote him of her trip.

_Charles,_

_A long flight out here, though I doubt any flight could be longer than the one that brought us home from Korea. There's something so different about the air out here. It's the same sun, but it's warmer somehow. Loving. You feel free, even when you're at your loneliest. I think my melancholy comes from a lot of tiring shifts at work. This vacation is doing wonders. To think...I haven't really had a true vacation since I got back from Korea. That conference in Philadelphia doesn't count, because you were being an absolute bore, refusing to do anything but sit on a bench in the park. So it wasn't Boston. Well, maybe that'll be my next vacation...Boston at Christmastime. You should really think about taking time off, too, Charles. _

_I've been listening to a lot of classical music lately. It's funny; I don't know why, but listening to it makes me feel...almost...homesick. I'm certainly no expert. You'd probably politely correct me on just about everything, all the while wincing at my ignorance. I know you've slowly begun to listen to some pieces again. Schubert's Impromptu in G-fat...Charles, it's one of the loveliest pieces of music I've ever heard. I was listening to a Rachmaninoff piano concerto the other day. Not sure which one, but it was so sad. When you're really ready to hear the music again, Charles, maybe we can listen to those pieces together. I've always wanted to do that with you, but just take your time. _

_Sometimes I think I'll never forget the way the sun looked in Korea. _

_Charles, do you ever think about all the people we will ever love in life? The ones who go away. The ones who make your memories._

_Well, when did I get so thoughtful?_

_Anyway, enclosed is a picture of me, which BJ took. I owe you, so hope you like it. I haven't spoken to Hawkeye for a while, but BJ sends his love. Or, I'm saying BJ sends his love. He actually just says hi. I remember..._

_Anyway, I'll be home by the time you get this letter, so give me a call._

_Love always,_

_Margaret_

He didn't know it then--couldn't have--but it was to be the last letter he would ever receive from her, while she was in the States. After her trip, they kept in touch exclusively by phone or telegram or the occasional postcard with a quick message. But as far as thoughtful letters went, it would be the last from her. He'd put it in a box, along with the picture, because he enjoyed reading it when there would be long months between contact. And the picture started to age, in increments. The picture, with eerie foresight, started to die, like the subject it captured would, in a few short years.

* * *

In the winter of 1957, Margaret went to Boston for Christmas, her first real chance to see the city for any great length of time, which Charles quickly admonished her for, seeing as it was _the_ city to be within, in his opinion. 

"So, my dear Margaret, any interested suitors on the horizon, attempting to charm you into committment?" He relished the feel of her arm laced through his, as they walked through the park, snow falling lightly.

"Oh, Charles, I'm just..." she didn't know what to say, to finish.

"What, Margaret?" he stopped them in their tracks, gazing at her intensely.

"Do you know, I think some people hide for so long...you can't ever find them again," she dipped her head beneath the snowflakes falling on chilled air.

"But did _you_ also know you could never _be_ lost?"

"How's that?"

"I know how to find you," he stated, voice void of a tremble.

He pulled her against his chest as she turned her cheek into the softness of his sweater. She wanted to believe she could stay this warm. And he wanted to believe he would always have that warmth to give, to one he treasured.

* * *

_"Please see she has a coat so warm, to keep her from the howling winds..."_

**III.**

"Margaret, you may have forgotten this in the interlude between our correspondence, but I _do_ run this department, it would be little effort to detach myself from duties to ensure your well-being."

She coughed, a lingering remnant of the pneumonia she'd battled for the past month, and had only just told Charles about, as she'd come to the end of it.

"And you may have forgotten, Charles, that not only am I a capable nurse, I happen to work _in_ a hospital as well. A damn good hospital, as a matter of fact. I'm just fine, now. I've been fine since last weekend."

"Then why are you still coughing?" he persisted.

"Just the last...tendrils. Look, will you quit the mother hen routine?"

"Major," he teased, "you are the most insufferably stubborn woman I have ever met."

"And you adore me for it," she stated boldly, wondering if she should've done so as a pause of silence accompanied her remark.

"That I do," he returned, sincerely.

"Read anything good lately?" she gladly changed the subject, leaning back against her pillows as she pulled the blankets tightly around her thighs.

"Perusing a collection of Auden poems."

"Oh, Auden. I've heard _of_ him, haven't read anything by him."

"I would gladly loan it to you as soon as I'm finished with it."

"_Loan_ it? Uh-huh. And do I need to provide collateral?"

"Not necessary. I will say that if it is not returned to me within a sufficient amount of time, I shall have to fly down to Washington and personally reclaim it myself. And since you seem so intent on keeping me _away_ from your dwelling place, I should think that point well-received."

"Duly noted, Winchester."

He leant back in his desk chair, emitting a slight creak as he did so.

"And why is that, exactly, Margaret? Carrying on a torrid love affair under a thick veil of secrecy?"

"No, it's..."

She wasn't the type of person to be embarrassed by her presently humble living conditions, but she was a bit hesitant to have him visit, simply because she hadn't really had time to redecorate, or even completely move in, as it was a new apartment for her. The paint was chipped in places and there was more dust than she would like. After all, she did want to present an immaculate abode to people, it was simply in her nature, consequence of her army breeding. The only thing that had so far hindered her redecorating was the bout of pneumonia.

"Nothing, really."

He hesitated, then. "Margaret, are you all right?"

"Charles, I'm really tired all of a sudden. Would you mind if I called you back some other time?"

"Not at all. Shall I tuck you in?"

"Leave the light on."

* * *

By 1958, she had convinced herself she wasn't in love with him, so there was no longer the issue of _why don't you come out with your true feelings?_ since the feelings, of course, were not there to begin with. But then, above all, she'd always been a magnificent liar. And though it may have been true that Charles knew how to find her, she often thought it would help if she sometimes knew how to find herself. 

The phone startled her out of her increasingly morose thoughts.

"Am I disturbing you?" the familiar, desired voice spoke.

"No, Charles, just thinking."

"Dangerous thing, that."

"Well, that would make you the most cunning daredevil, wouldn't it?"

"I will accept that as a thinly veiled compliment, Margaret."

"Is there a point to this interruption, Doctor?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. I wanted to inform you of my impending marriage."

For a moment, she was silent, glad he couldn't see her hand tightening around the phone.

"You're engaged?"

"I do believe that to be an alternative description, yes."

"Engaged. Wow. Charles, that's--well..."

And the feelings she had only just been convincing herself weren't there suddenly rose within her like a snake coiling back to strike, venom seeking prey. Rational thought was fleeing her mind, as typically happened when she became resentful, and she wanted to stop while she was ahead, but couldn't.

"Do you love her?"

"She will be an ideal wife, Margaret; proper and delicate--"

"That's not what I asked, Winchester. Do you love her?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, that's great. I'm happy for you. I'm happy you have the perfect society wife that you can parade around in your upper-crust Bostonian circles like a trophy. She comes from good breeding and speaks articulately and appreciates Chopin and opera and great literature, I'm sure. Not Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday and Cole Porter and oh, those silly sonnets by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I guess I thought if you...loved me enough, you could change, that it wouldn't matter if I was high society or not."

"Margaret," he sighed, trying to stay calm, "I love you dearly, but those feelings do not go beyond simple, profound friendship."

"Charles, I have to go."

* * *

That night, she looked for answers in the static rivers of amber ethanol, knowing only silence would persist; she would have to sort through this one alone, again. So she made a decision. She was _not_ in love with Charles Emerson Winchester III. Or rather, she would not be in love with him anymore. He deserved to be happy, to have a wife his parents and peers would approve of. Anything else would only cause him unnecessary trouble. She didn't want to be the impetus for any impending trouble. After all, Charles didn't love her. It made it easier when it was one-sided. 

Shoving the glass across the table, she picked up the phone, hoping Charles would forgive her ill-mannered diatribe earlier.

"Charles," she started softly, "What's her name?"

"Elizabeth," he replied.

Margaret had been waiting to hear the tone of his voice change as he spoke his fiancee's name; to simulatenously rise and dip with optimism and adoration and utter happiness. But it remained flat, a mere recitation of fact.

"I wanted to know what to put on the congratulations card."

* * *

It was just barely 1959 when he called her, late in the evening. She'd worked a double shift to assist in place of a nurse who'd been unable to turn in for duty. Exhausted, she initially turned away from the shrill ringing, burying her head beneath the pillows. But it persisted two more times and she threw her arm out haphazardly, laying it upon the receiver and bringing it to her mouth with little thought, but rather, the ease of repitition. 

"Yeah?" she croaked, half-asleep and glad for it, lest she be embarrassed by her discourtesy.

"Margaret?" a masculine voice asked of her, gently, aware of the groginess in her tone.

But hearing his voice, she managed to open both her eyes and run a hand through her hair before saying, "Charles?"

"Margaret, dear, you were sleeping. I'll ring you some other time. If you'll excuse my gaucherie."

"Charles, wait, wait, you might as well tell me now, I'm awake. And if it's...this late, it must be important."

"Very well."

She could almost hear a shuffle of brain matter through her end, as though he were still turning over the thought of whatever had occurred. He exhaled with a wearied sigh, and she couldn't help but wonder where he was at right now; often, he called her just prior to leaving the hospital. But they had only spoken once since he'd been engaged and she didn't fault him for that; after all, how would it have seemed to his fiancee? Not that she had any stray feelings to worry about on her end...

"Margaret, Elizabeth and I are no longer engaged. It was...a mutual decision."

"But Charles, I don't understand--I mean, I thought you were in love, you wanted to have children..."

"I very much want to have children, Margaret, but that is an issue which, presently, seems to be unrelated. I always imagined the possibility that I may enter into a courtship which was more about duty and less about love, but once I was within it, I found myself unable to conceive of its longevity. Elizabeth agreed."

"Charles, I'm so sorry. What are you going to do about--"

"Margaret, those are worries for another day. I merely needed a sympathetic ear before I inform my parents. My father," he added, at the last, apprehension palpable.

Knowing he was about to hang up, she offered, at the last, "Charles? Don't worry. You're good at finding people, you'll find the future Mrs. Winchester soon enough."

* * *

_"When the dark night seems endless, please remember me."_

**IV. **

They had talked frequently as he went through the arduous task of divorcing, which was more painful simply for what it was, not due to whom he was divorcing. There were many nights when she would work double shifts or need to be in only three hours after they'd hung up, but he would remain forever unaware of that. In those months, her purpose was to comfort him.

In November of 1960, she called him. Immediately, he was assaulted with her airy laugh and instantly teasing lilt.

"So Kennedy's president now, Charles."

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"_That's_ what you called me for?"

"I'm working late so I can't talk long, I just wanted to hear how excited you were about it."

"I'm so ecstatic, Margaret, that I more than likely sound _heartbroken_."

"As a matter of fact, you do."

"Yes, well, it's the phone connection, I'm sure. Altering my intonation."

"You've really honed that sarcasm, Dr. Winchester. I like it. A _lot_," her voice was thicker now, flirty.

"I didn't vote for him, either, you know. We can...what's the word?"

"Commiserate," he added, hunching over paperwork.

Her voice soothed his restless thoughts, churning with the tempest his recent divorce wrought. Though they had broken off amicably, his psyche was still in disarray about what it meant; he had the profession he'd always longed for, and planned on, but he was still, it seemed, eons away from the _life_ he'd longed for. And since Margaret seemed to be in relatively the same position, it surprised him that tonight, he didn't want to seek her counsel. In fact, he wanted just the opposite. For quite a while. He knew that no matter how he put it to her, she would be hurt, but there were warring decisions in his brain, causing the turmoil he already experienced to be multiplied tenfold. And many of those warring decisions directly concerned, and related, to her. He braced himself.

"Margaret," he started gently, "I am presently in a rather disheartening mood, which favors solitude over empathy. I do not know how long this will persist, but I think it best if we forego communication for just a little while until I can collect my thoughts in a manner that would actually be beneficial and pleasant for both of us. Besides, I do not want to rub off on you; no need for both of us to be morose."

There was a pause on the line as she seemed to be digesting what he'd said.

"You want me to leave you alone for a while. You don't want to talk to me, is that it?"

"Well, Margaret--"

"No, no, I'm just making sure I understand. Look, if you need space, fine, I understand. I've got a life, too, you know. I'm busy down here."

"Margaret," he ran a hand over his brow, "it won't be for long, I simply need a few weeks to consolidate my thoughts, reconsider my direction. I will call you as soon as I am in a state of mind deserving of your dear friendship."

"Fine, Charles. But maybe I won't be home then."

* * *

But he didn't try to call her again until Christmas 1961, because there were these unspoken aches between them, and uncertainties which grew into even unhealthier feelings of regret. He met Alice, but that affair was short-lived, and so he once again threw his focus into work and regular societal engagements. He was surprised to get a phone call from Hawkeye earlier that year, in the summer, but they had a pleasant conversation. Hawkeye had just become engaged to a local schoolteacher, and Charles was invited to the wedding. 

"Of course I'll be there, Pierce. If only to set eyes upon the woman who is no doubt possessed with enough fortitude and tenacity to put up with you."

"Ha-_ha_, Charles. Just about everyone will be there. Except Klinger, and Margaret--"

"Margaret's not going to attend?"

"No, no. I thought you would've known, the way you two keep in touch. Uh, her father's really sick, and since the wedding's only two months away, she doesn't think she'll be able to leave."

"Colonel Houlihan is ill? _That_ man? I never pictured him succumbing to an illness, I'd always envisioned he would--"

"Go down in a blaze of glory like the military man he is? Yeah, me too. I think that's what's making it even harder on Margaret, since he was--_is_, such a strong guy."

"Well, Pierce, my sincerest congratulations on your engagement, and I shall be attending. My mind is full of anticipatory glee. If you'll excuse me, I must phone Margaret..."

But she hadn't answered that night. So he'd tried a week later, and decided to wait until after the New Year before he attempted to get in touch with her again. Shortly into 1962, he finally reached her.

"Margaret," he felt relieved to finally get a hold of her.

"Charles," she responded curtly.

"Are you all right, dear, I heard from Hawkeye about your father--"

"Do not call me _dear_, Dr. Winchester, and I'm in no mood to kowtow to your play at sympathy."

"_Play_ at sympathy? Margaret, I am concerned about your well-being--"

"My well-being? I'm not the one who's sick!"

"Your mental health--"

"Oh, shove it, Dr. Freud. I seem to remember a conversation over a year ago where I was, in succint terms, informed that my concern for _your_ well-being was an annoyance."

"Hardly an annoyance, Margaret; you seem to be laboring under a severe misinterpretation of my wishes--"

She cut him off again. "Look--"

"No, I will not be interrupted again--"

"You _will_ be. You called me. You don't get to just decide when our friendship is going to be convenient for you. How about this, you inflated narcissist? _I _don't want to talk to _you_! I'll call you when I feel like it."

* * *

Margaret had sent a nice bouquet of flowers to Hawkeye's wedding, with a promise to attend any reunion that might be planned in the near future. Being around all of his former colleagues again made him want for the company of the friend who'd most endeared herself to him, above all. The memory of their previous conversation kept him from the thought of pursuing any imminent contact with her. 

After a few more months had gone by, he'd made the decision to go and visit her for himself. So, in July 1962, he went to Washington, D.C., hoping she would forgive his unannounced arrival, but knowing it was the only way he could speak with her.

When he knocked on the door, he was immediately greeted with a haggard, sleepy Margaret Houlihan, hair tousled in a clump at the side of her head. She was wearing green shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt and appeared to be half-asleep, by her silence.

"Do you always answer your door that way?"

"Hmm? Charles?" she opened her eyes wider, focusing on him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked softly.

"May I reveal my purpose for appearing without forewarning inside?"

He gathered his bags and stepped inside as she opened the door wider to allow him entrance. Setting his luggage down, he glanced at his watch. It _was_ rather late. Now he had an added amount of guilt.

"I'm not going to offer you anything, because I don't appreciate you coming here without telling me."

"I understand," he took his coat off, handing it to her when she outstretched her hand.

"I mean--I could've had a boyfriend over here or something, you don't know."

"You're quite right, Margaret. I am extremely penitent about my severe disregard of your perspective."

"Can we sit down?"

"Certainly."

She took a seat rather far from him, on her couch, and he wasn't unaware of the distance.

"Why did you come here, Charles?"

"You were refusing my calls, and I was concerned."

She looked ahead, crossing her arms and remaining silent.

"About what?" she asked finally, annoyed.

"Margaret, how is your father?"

She was silent again, then made a move to stand up, saying, "Would you like something? Tea? Coffee? Scotch?"

He grasped her arm gently, halting her movement, and forcing her to look him in the eyes, which she hadn't yet done. He took her other hand gently in his until her body had turned fully towards him. Then he leaned forward so his voice needn't be above a whisper.

"How is he?" he repeated.

Her lower lip trembled once until she sighed, "He's dying."

As she said it, she closed her eyes, wrenching her arms from his grasp and making a move to stand again. This time, he enveloped her completely in his arms. She resisted at first, but quickly relented, shaking in his arms with the manifestation of her tears. He tightened his grip and leant back against the armrest until she was cradled completely against his chest. He was content to keep her nestled against him, offering what little strength he could, until her sobs dwindled and her breathing grew deep and even. He pressed a kiss against her forehead, and joined her in slumber.

* * *

_"And a rock feels no pain; and an island never cries."_

**V.**

He'd spent a few days in D.C., concluding once again that it was far inferior, in comparison to Boston; but better than Philadelphia, which she laughed at. At least he could still compromise, albeit in his own..._unique_ way. There were phone calls again, with more consistent frequency, and a purposeful indifference to each other's love life. Not necessarily because they didn't care, but because there were certain things which could be irreparably altered with a little knowledge.

Early in 1964, Margaret phoned Charles in the middle of the night. Initially vexed by this intrusion of his sleep, he immediately softened as he heard her tear-choked voice on the other end, telling him her father had died. Despite her protests, he insisted on going to the funeral. She never admitted it, but she was beyond feeling gratitude, at his presence.

Towards the end of 1964, it was decided that the compatriots of the 4077th should all meet in Missouri, despite ardent protest from Charles, who reluctantly agreed, simply given the company he would be keeping there. Location, after all, could be tolerated, as he'd once learned. Charles was still a bit worried about Margaret's state of mind, but he figured that seeing her old friends could do nothing but aid her bereavement process. At their last phone call, before they were to fly to Missouri, Margaret ended the conversation by telling Charles she had an announcement for him. He couldn't help but feel anxious about that tidbit.

When Charles arrived at Colonel Potter's house, BJ, Hawkeye, and Radar were already there. Hawkeye was exuberant over the pregnancy of his wife, and Charles felt genuinely happy for him. It was Margaret who arrived next, and the others couldn't help but smile at the way Margaret, now 46, launched herself at Colonel Potter as though she were a giddy schoolgirl, elated to see her "father." She made the rounds, hugging and kissing everyone, and saving Charles for last, whom she hugged more tightly than any of the others. He returned the ferocity of the hug, smiling at her apparent joy.

Later that evening, they all sat down to dinner, trading quips and anecdotes, trying to fill in the gaps between their last meetings together.

As they sipped wine, Margaret suddenly called attention to herself, declaring she had an announcement, and Colonel Potter urged her forward.

"As you all know, I've been working at Walter Reed since Korea, and I love it there so much. It's been fulfilling and immensely rewarding. And as you may also know, my father recently passed away."

At the last remark, Charles squeezed her hand, which she acknowledged with a smile before continuing, "His death made me reevaluate my commitment to the Army, and I've volunteered to go to Vietnam, where I feel I can once again be of value to our fighting soldiers."

Everyone was instantly shocked, silent for seconds after her announcement.

Potter was the first to speak, "Margaret, you've always known what you wanted and I don't doubt your passion for this endeavor. So, you're not going to get any more than a 'good luck,' 'give 'em hell,' and 'stay safe, damnit,' from me."

The others eventually all reiterated Potter's sentiment, though Charles remained suspiciously diffident.

* * *

He confronted her later that evening and was very surprised to see her smoking a cigar. As he took a seat beside her on the porch swing, she inhaled deeply, and they were both lit merely by the afterglow. 

"When did you develop this habit?"

"I raided my dad's old trunk. He only had two left. This is the last one."

She dug her foot into the wooden porch beneath them, propelling them backwards minutely.

"Just as well. It's a nasty habit, anyway," she remarked, drawing another breath, apparently unconcerned with the irony.

"Why did you not tell me of this 'announcement' earlier?"

"I wanted to tell everyone together."

"Margaret, since when have I been 'everyone'?"

She smiled, looking at him suddenly, flicking the ash off to her side.

"You know, Winchester, I don't think you _ever_ have."

"Then will you elaborate, for me, on why you plan to leave a perfectly stable, _safe_ position at Walter Reed to journey to the barbaric country of Vietnam?"

"To be a nurse, Charles," she punctuated deliberately.

"But you are a nurse here, Margaret. A very fine one. One whom I...cherish," he whispered, leaning closer.

She pulled away from him, allowing the glow of the cigar to dwindle as she ceased inhaling it.

"Don't do this to me now, Charles. Not _now_, not this time. It isn't appropriate."

"Do what?"

"Try to con me into staying here because you care about me. A lot of people care about a lot of other people; that doesn't mean they stop doing things just because they might..."

She trailed off, glancing down at the cigar which had died in her hands.

"I love you, Charles, but I don't _love_ you, and that would really be the only thing keeping me here. There's nothing keeping me here. I want to be somewhere I can have a purpose again."

"But Margaret--" he grasped her hands.

"Will you promise me something? Will you find someone, please? You're getting old, Dr. Winchester. I want to come back from this and see a little Emerson Winchester IV running around. I need to leave here knowing you're going to find someone. You're good at finding people," she said, harkening back to a statement she'd made so long ago, when he was facing divorce.

He wasn't sure if he could promise anything, so he hugged her again kissing her head and hands, unconcerned that her ash-stained fingertips were dirtying the edges of his shirt.

* * *

_"Remember me to one who lives there, for she once was a true love of mine..."_

**VI.**

The news of her death came abruptly, jarring him instantly like a misaligned railroad track which instantly set a train askew. But he didn't suppose _any_ death was something expected, even that of a terminally ill person; because for all the planning, the knowledge of imminency of death, it was still never known just when it would come. And it came, surely, surely, when it was least wanted.

It was 1965.

And it was then that he knew he could never again be certain about latitude and longitude, because, quite simply, he'd lost his compass.

But he didn't cry. _Wouldn't_ cry. Not yet. It was _there_, the impending grief which he knew would encapsulate him, but it would hold at the precipice for now. He had to understand, _really_ understand what she had been to him, before he could move forward with the knowledge that she would never, ever be _that_ again, for him. Or anyone.

It had been her birthday a week ago, he suddenly realized, and he'd had his a month before that. So already, he was leaving her behind as the years aged him and kept her frozen in bent photographs where she would always be alive, leaning against the trunk of a tree as her hair swept the glow of her eyes into streaming sunlight. She was more alive, in that picture BJ had taken, than anyone he knew. And it hurt with an intensity he could never have foreseen, as he realized the photograph would always remain silent, and the subject of it, ever absent. Hardest of all...photographs didn't breathe. So he wasn't just holding a memory, in that old photograph from San Francisco. He was holding a ghost.

He had loved her as a sister, hadn't he? A dear sister, to whom he could tell his misfortunes, and be instantly set back a peg when his boasting went beyond endearing, as she would say, anyway. A sister, who knew his favorite composers (and had helped to reintroduce music back into his life) and the way he preferred his coffee; the minutiae of everything he was, and is, and could be. He had loved her like that, of course.

* * *

A few weeks later, he had remained dry of tears, but was suddenly instantly stunted in movement by the mail he'd just received. A letter. From her. Posthumous. He regarded it irreverently, hesitant to even open it. But he had to know what she'd said. 

_Charles,_

_This is a short one. Remember a long time ago you talked about reading Auden? And you loaned me the book of his poetry? I guess it didn't bother you that I'd never returned it, but I love it so much. You always have the best taste in these things, Charles, because he's magnificent. I've been feeling a little lonely lately, and there's one poem in particular which has helped me through some long nights. _

_And it makes me think of you. Not just because you helped introduce me to Auden in the first place, but because of what it says. I know when you read it, you'll be startled by what it's implying, but I figure since we're far away from each other now, it's not going to hurt anything to let this out. I'm pretty sure I'll regret it as soon as I send this off, and even more when I get home._

_You may wonder what would change my mind, after I'd so long denied my feelings towards you? I guess it's the way the sun looks in Vietnam. See? You're not the only one who can master ambiguity. No, I guess it's...really...the thought that maybe I could have something really nice to come home to. If you feel the same, that is. And if you don't, we've always been dear friends, so at least I have that going for me. Enclosed is the poem that has been keeping me warm. I've underlined my favorite lines._

_My love always,_

_Margaret_

His hands shook as he finished reading. And it was an aching thing, building gradually until he was sick to his stomach and a throbbing overtook his cognitive function. He slumped against the wall, letter dangling loosely between his fingers, and thought of her. And as he thought of her, a fire glowed in his mind, dancing with the life of air all around it, and she was the flame. But it dwindled and dipped lower, reduced to a single thin blue line. Not enough left to kindle. Not enough left to whisper confessions upon. And he suddenly slid down the wall slowly, grateful it was there to support his back. The sobs came violently, and each time he inhaled, he would see her smile over her shoulder as she turned to walk away, hair blowing in the wind of dead saints. Each time he inhaled, she was still living between intercostal spaces, within his breaths.

He hadn't yet looked at the poem, didn't want to, until he'd done one thing. Tears still blurring his vision, he walked over to his phonograph, placing within it the Schubert album which had come to mean so much to Margaret. He played the Impromptu in G-flat. And was assaulted with a renewed ache of sickening intensity.

He finally glanced at the underlined lines of the Auden poem she'd included in her letter, sobs going unabated as he read each line:

_As I walked out one evening  
Walking down Bristol Street  
The crowds upon the pavement  
Were fields of harvest wheat  
And down by the brimming river  
I heard a lover sing  
Under an arch of the railway:  
'Love has no ending.  
I'll love you, dear, I'll love you  
Till China and Africa meet  
And the river jumps over the mountain  
And the salmon sing in the street  
I'll love you till the ocean  
Is folded and hung up to dry  
And the seven stars go squawking  
Like geese about the sky  
The years shall run like rabbits  
For in my arms I hold  
The Flower of the Ages  
And the first love of the world.'_

And underlined at the last, the final four lines:  
_It was late, late in the evening  
The lovers, they were gone;  
The clocks had ceased their chiming  
And the deep river ran on._

He didn't think of her as a sister. He had _loved_ her; loved her in the winds of Korea and the rains of Washington and the scarring sun of Boston, leaving stains of what could have been on his heart. He loved her in the air of every mile between them. And while it was true that he knew how to find her, no matter how lost she was, it was also equally true that when he was with her, it was the only time he never had to worry about losing himself, either. She was his benchmark. So when he thought of the jungles that swallowed her, and the way the air above him now hovered and trembled with the uncertainty of the split between heaven and earth, he wanted to believe he could find himself without her.

But he'd forgotten which way was North.

_fin._


End file.
